Hurried
by tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Yamamoto wakes up when Gokudera falls out of bed." Gokudera can't find his shirt and Yamamoto offers the obvious solution.


Yamamoto wakes up when Gokudera falls out of bed.

The crash as the other hits the floor is loud enough to startle him awake, to shock his eyes open as he starts to sit up and reach out in a belated attempt to catch the other. Gokudera isn't even looking at him; he's scrambling to his feet without even a moment to collect his bruises, muttering curses under his breath as he shoves his fingers through the tangle of his hair.

"Morning." Yamamoto sits up entirely, letting the sheet slide down to his waist as he stretches and yawns enormously.

"We're _late_," Gokudera half-wails, getting halfway into a pair of jeans before he notices that they're too long, bunching at his ankles like all Yamamoto's pants do on him, and drops to sit on the floor so he can drag them right back off. "You don't have an _alarm_ set?"

Yamamoto laughs, ruffles his hair into its usual disarray as he watches Gokudera peer under the bed before grabbing at the corner of denim peeking out from under the furniture. His own jeans fit better, even if it takes him twice as long as usual to struggle into them as his own desperate haste works against him.

"Usually I wake up on my own," he says as he slides out of the warmth of the bed and reaches for the clothing Gokudera has just abandoned. "You kept me up later than usual last night."

Gokudera looks up sharply, glaring at Yamamoto from under the fall of his hair while his cheeks flare crimson. "This is _not_ my fault, _you_ were the one who didn't set an alarm." He looks away as his blush darkens, retreats behind the fabric of an undershirt as he keeps talking. "And _you_ were definitely the one keeping us awake."

"Probably," Yamamoto admits. Gokudera is still red when he emerges from the collar of the shirt, not quite meeting Yamamoto's gaze as he tries to finger-comb the worst of the tangles out of his hair. "Though that thing when you were licking my ear was really distracting the first time we tried to go to sleep." He laughs at the color that floods Gokudera's face, overflowing from his cheekbones to stain his entire expression. "Your shirt's backwards."

Gokudera looks down. "_Fuck_." Yamamoto grins, leaves Gokudera to struggle with the thin fabric while he pulls on a fresh shirt of his own. When he turns back Gokudera's on his knees again, glaring under the bed like the shadows have personally affronted him.

"Where the _fuck_ is my shirt?" Gokudera demands, rocking back onto his heels to turn his flushed glare on Yamamoto.

Yamamoto looks around the room, but with Gokudera mostly-dressed and his own jeans on there's nothing on the floor so it's a short search. "Huh. I don't know."

"_Takeshi_," Gokudera protests as he bounces to his feet. "It's _your room_."

"Sorry." Yamamoto laughs. "I wasn't paying attention to your clothes last night." He glances back, reaches for his dresser again. "Here." He grabs the first thing his hand lands on, a checkered overshirt worn soft and comfortable with dozens of washings, and tosses it in Gokudera's direction. "That should fit."

"I hate you," Gokudera growls, but he's pulling the shirt on too rapidly for Yamamoto to offer another solution, and the frown at his lips isn't touching the softness at the corners of his eyes.

"You look good in my clothes," Yamamoto offers as truth. Gokudera hisses wordlessly at him, looks like he's thinking about voicing a real protest, but his mouth goes softer than the shirt when Yamamoto leans in to kiss him. It's only a moment - they _are_ late - but Gokudera's frown is nowhere to be seen when Yamamoto pulls away, and he doesn't even grumble when Yamamoto touches the inside of his wrist before intertwining their fingers.

"Come on," he says, and Gokudera glances up at him with the warm glow in his eyes that he sometimes forgets to hide. Yamamoto's fingers brush through the last lingering tangles in the other's silver hair, working the knots free until it falls in its usual smooth lines to frame Gokudera's face. "Let's go." When he smiles Gokudera flushes and looks away, but the fingers in his tighten for a moment, the reassurance of pressure on his skin, and that pulls Yamamoto's smile wide enough for the both of them.


End file.
